Splintered
by Lif61
Summary: Sam finishes up a normal day at school when everyone suddenly vanishes. And as if things couldn't get any stranger, a man appears and takes him away. The journey that follows leads to places new and old, and self-realization with dire consequences.


**A/N: Written for the Sam Winchester Zine which can be found on tumblr by searching the url samwinchesterzine, and it's available to download. I had a lot of fun being a part of this project, and I love this story, so I'm excited to read your reviews on this!**

* * *

The bell rang, signaling the end of the day, and Sam crammed his notebook into his backpack before heading out. His pencil fell, and he stooped over to pick it up. Other students were bustling around him, someone shoved him, and he lifted up his head to glare at them.

No one was there.

Silence met him.

The classroom was empty.

Sam frowned, hurriedly stuffed his pencil in his bag, and zipped it up before rushing out of the classroom. He'd clung on to a glimmer of hope that he'd find students out in the hall, all rushing to get to the buses, or their cars, or bikes so they could go home for the day.

The hallway was so void of life that Sam felt a chill run through him. The window across from him showed pitch black, and it sent a primal, animal fear through Sam that had him shutting down, unable to function.

Dad would be mad at him for such a reaction.

He just wanted to go home, just wanted to see Dean, wanted to talk to him about his day, about… about…

What _had_ happened during the day?

Sam couldn't remember.

_Take a step forward,_ he told himself. _Take a step forward._

He couldn't do it. Do it, and something bad would happen. Do it, and…

And what?

Sam wasn't afraid of the dark.

But he was afraid of what was in the dark.

_What would Dad do?_ he asked himself.

The question that was always nagging Sam whenever he thought of any decision: _What would Dad do?_

Always questions about Dad...

What would make Dad happy? What would make Dad calm down? What would make Dad praise him? What would make Dad let him be a normal kid?

But this wasn't a normal situation, and Sam wasn't a normal kid.

So Sam pulled his knife from his pocket, and switched the blade up. His sweaty palms threatened to drop it.

Breathe in. Out.

Sam stepped forward towards the window, walking cautiously, all his focus on what lay before him.

A hand snatched his wrist, and he yelped, slashing out with his knife. Crimson dripped from a large gash on someone's muscular forearm. They cried out in a deep voice, and Sam turned to face his assailant. They were a man who was much, _much_ bigger than him, in both height and stature, with slightly wavy brown hair nearly down to his shoulders, and hazel eyes that were heated and dangerous, but glinting with intelligence. He was dressed in plaid, jeans, and boots, and his sleeves were rolled up.

"God damn it, kid!" he swore, before grabbing Sam again, this time his knife hand.

He yanked on his little finger, something Sam had learned to do just last week, and he lost his grip on the knife.

The big man dragged him down the hall, Sam kicking and screaming all the way. They made it out the side entrance of the school, out into that deep darkness, and Sam had expected to fall, but instead he was thrown down onto thick metal strips that interlocked like a cage.

The door shut.

Black. Nothing, but that metal, Sam backing away from where he thought his assailant was. His body throbbed from the rough manhandling. Oh, if only he had his knife!

With each second Sam found that it was getting harder and harder to breathe, the air seemingly poisonous to his lungs. But then a red light began to emanate from an unknown source – everywhere yet nowhere – and Sam found his breaths coming easier to him.

The large man approached him and he shuffled back.

"This is Dean's fault, isn't it?" the man asked, tone rough with fury.

"H-how do you know my brother?" he questioned, hating how small and weak his voice had sounded, hated that it hadn't cracked yet, though he was fourteen. Sam had yet to even have a really good growth spurt.

"Because he's my brother. And you know what he does? He punches me, he insults me, he _jokes_, and he made me get possessed, so if he got you into this mess, I wouldn't be surprised."

"What?" Sam questioned. "Dean wouldn't do that!"

As if on cue, a moaning voice drifted over to Sam, and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He turned to it, and was met with a rocking figure uttering "no" on loop like it was some sacred chant that would save his soul. Sam glanced at the Angry One, who still dripped blood – _plat plat plat_ – before crawling over to the Scared One.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"What's wrong?" the Angry One repeated, voice loud, making Sam cringe back; he was much too used to his dad's loud voice after one too many drinks. Just the mere thought of it made the scent of alcohol fill his nostrils, and nausea curled his stomach. "What's wrong is everyone and everything out there thinks it's okay to take advantage of me. To hurt big ol' Sammy like it's some kind of joke. Bet God's getting off to this _right now_."

"It's true," the Scared One murmured, voice scraping out of a throat that might've been raw from… something. Sam didn't know. Screaming? Had he been screaming?

Sam leaned closer, wanting to get a better look at his face in the red lighting.

He had the same scruff as the other man, the same prominent chin, broad forehead, defined cheekbones, the mole just to the left of his nose…

A gasp left him as he touched his own mole.

This man was him!

Both men were!

Yes, those were his eyes, the eyes he stared back at in the mirror every day, the eyes that called him a _freak_.

"No, no," he muttered, faltering back. "W-what's happening?"

"Hell if I know," the Angry One said. "Now, come on. Up off your asses. We're getting out of here."

The Scared One just said darkly, "There is no _out_. There will never _be_ an _out_."

"Where are we?" Sam asked.

The Scared One finally took his hands from his knees, and he held out his trembling arms to take in the space around him.

"Welcome to Hell, where the Devil likes to play with his toys."

"Are you one of his toys?" Sam asked tentatively, frightened of the words leaving his mouth.

"Come on, we're _going_," the Angry One declared, stomping over to Sam and grabbing his arm.

He cried out, the Angry One tossed him, and then Sam landed face first on a rug. A pair of boots were in front of his face, and then hands that had just tossed him helped him up. Sam was met with a much nicer looking version of himself, hair tucked behind his ears save for a few stray strands, sleeves rolled down, gentle smile on his face.

"Forget him," the Angry One said from where he sat by a table, legs spread, trying to take up the room.

They were in a motel room, and there were four of them now.

"No, he's just as important as each of us," said the one who helped him up. Sam immediately dubbed him as the Kind One.

The Scared One laughed, but his voice held no humor. "I'm not. I'm the loose end, the weak link. You might as well just kill me."

"But then where would we be?"

Sam whirled when he heard the other voice. It was lower, more cruel. He was met with another version of himself, dressed in a suit, the tie and first few buttons of his shirt undone, hair disheveled, eyes a bright yellow. Blood dripped from his mouth, and he licked it up. His lips were cherry-red, his teeth and tongue stained the same shade.

Sam backed up, bumping into the Kind One, who steadied him with his hands on his shoulders.

"A-are you m-me too?" he asked.

The yellow-eyed man looked around the room, at all the other Sams, and he spread his arms out. "What do you think? I look like 'em, Sammy."

"Don't call me Sammy."

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy… We're all Sammy," he went on.

"Why?" Sam questioned.

"Because we're broken," another voice came.

Sam whirled, and peered around the other him to look at the bed on the far side of the motel room. Another version of himself sat there, and ran a hand through his hair. He was dressed in drab colors, and when Sam met his eyes they looked empty.

"No, no, no, no…" the Scared One started chanting again, pleading, pleading to something, some_one_ Sam couldn't see.

"Oh, just shut up," the Angry One shouted, making the Scared One flinch. "Can we just get out of here? I want to go hunt some people down, pay 'em a visit."

"Too bad I can't visit Ruby," the Yellow-Eyed One lamented.

The Scared One stopped his panicked muttering to intone, "She _used_ me. She used _us_!"

"But I _need _her blood!"

"No, what you need is to kill her."

"But I loved her."

"Stop talking about her! She… She… You know what she did!"

"Just forget it!" the one by the bed that was farther away shouted.

He got up and walked to the table, sitting on it, taking command of the room. "We need to look to what's going on, and get over it."

"What is going on?" Sam asked.

He met his eyes again, still saw nothing there. Empty. The Empty One answered, "My best guess is we're getting tortured, so let's just bury everything and deal with it so we can get out of this and go home."

"H-home?" Sam inquired.

To Sam home was the motel room he was in now, at least for that month, and Dean was supposed to be there, but instead it was filled with awful men. He wanted to just sit down and cry, but he was too old to do that. He wasn't a kid anymore.

"To Jack," the Kind One said, seeming confused the words had left his mouth, but then some ease and love that Sam couldn't understand settled over him.

As they continued speaking the walls around them began to fall away, revealing mountains covered in pine, fir, and ash trees, a river carving through them. The floor melted away, no longer a rug, no longer hardwood, no longer tile. Tarmac and dirt, sparse weeds poking out through cracks in the road. The furniture fell away, the space between them shifting, and then they were all sitting on the Impala. The Kind One smiled as he looked down upon the mountains, breeze ruffling his hair. It was as if he recognized the area.

Sam was going to mention it, but then he realized it wasn't odd seeing as he'd gone from the school, to a cage, to a motel room.

This was the new normal.

"Who's Jack?" he asked instead.

"My son."

"Unless he's a demon he can go fuck himself."

"No, we don't need him," the Scared One agreed. "You know who he is, who he comes from. Why do you trust him? He could go into our room, and-"

"And he's _my son_," the Kind One reiterated.

"Why don't you like him?" Sam asked the Scared One.

"He's _his_ son."

A dark and cold feeling swept through him, clutching at his stomach, and he realized that he was no longer referring to himself.

What was Jack?

"Look, let's just forget all this, okay? It doesn't matter. We have to push everything down like we always do." The Empty One.

Sam couldn't argue with that.

Crying made Dad angry. Crying wasn't right. Showing emotion was showing weakness.

But he was still frightened, still confused. How could all these men be him? Why were they him?

Sam realized he really didn't like himself, though the Kind One seemed okay.

"We'll get through this," the Kind One said. "For Jack."

And then for some reason he started fading away, like smoke in the wind.

Sam felt different in his absence, felt some strength in him, warmth, compassion.

Curiosity took him, and he turned from where he sat on the hood and craned up at the Yellow-Eyed One.

"Why are you like that?"

"I drank blood."

"But Azazel put it in us!" the Angry One argued.

The Scared One nodded.

"Doesn't that bother you?" The Angry One again.

The Yellow-Eyed One shrugged. "I'd be sitting on a throne right now if it wasn't for the rest of you."

Sam didn't know what throne he meant, and while he did wish to know, he realized it wasn't important. The Empty One seemed right. They had to get through whatever was going on here, not fixate on the mess that was his life.

"But you're not," Sam told him. "You're not sitting on a throne, and you don't have blood. So why are you here?"

"Because…" He frowned. "Because..."

A smile broke out on Sam's face when he realized he'd stumped him.

"Why does it matter what I did or what I'm going to do?" he asked, realizing that he was no longer afraid of this bloody, dark version of himself. He looked upon him and he saw someone who'd been used, someone who'd been hurt, even though he didn't understand how. He saw someone who needed love. "You're not evil," he told him.

"Dean said-" the Angry One began to snap.

Sam snapped right back, "I don't care what Dean said." Now to the Yellow-Eyed One: "Look, you're me, and I'm you. I… I don't see how I could become that, but… but I guess I do. But don't you see? That's not all you are! Sure, you're angry, you're scared, but you're not evil. _I'm_ not evil. I refuse to believe it. Everyone has darkness in them. I see it in Dad, I saw it in a hunter who was just trying to save my life once, I saw it in Dean when he punched a kid at school. But we're all more than that, aren't we? We have to be. _I_ have to be."

Sam didn't know where all these words came from, but he just knew, he just _hoped_ that blood wasn't all there was for him.

The Yellow-Eyed One faded, and a hunger took root in Sam, but it was a manageable hunger.

None of this was odd to any of them at this point, though Sam wondered what would happen when he, too, faded.

Without speaking, the rest of them climbed into the Impala, Sam in the passenger's seat, the Empty One driving, the two remaining versions of him in the back.

The Scared One's skin began to drip blood, coming from wounds Sam couldn't see, and soon when he looked back at him he saw nothing but crimson-painted skin and haunted eyes.

The Empty One drove with a purpose, till they were at a worn-down house that Sam recognized very well.

Bobby's.

Was Bobby going to be here?

Excited, he rushed inside, only to be met with emptiness. Loneliness.

The other versions of himself followed till they were all in Bobby's study. Sam sat down on the desk, wanting to appear bigger than his other selves, though that was surely impossible.

"Now what?" he asked, picking up one of the many books cluttering the room, and flipping through it.

The Scared One hunched on the floor, the Angry One leaned against the door frame, and the Empty One sat on the couch. It was an odd sight, four of them in Bobby's study. He imagined the old man would get a laugh out of it.

He smiled thinking about it, which made the Angry One shoot him a look that clearly said, _Fuck you_.

"Why would we be getting tortured?" Sam asked.

All three versions of him started laughing, making Sam's stomach drop to his feet.

Oh.

His life was really that bad, huh?

No, it couldn't be all that. He felt love in him, even amongst the bad.

But…

"Fine, if that's funny, then I have a better question. How do we get out of here?"

"We get rid of these two," the Empty One suggested, gesturing to the more emotional versions of himself.

"Yeah?" the Angry One challenged, stepping forward, hands curled into fists. "And who's gonna protect us once we get out? You with your nothingness? You're weak, maybe even weaker than him." He nodded at the Scared One. "At least he's brave enough to feel something."

"Maybe I am weak!" the Empty One argued, now on his feet. "Maybe we're _all _weak!"

They began to circle each other, and Sam shuffled back on the desk, pulling his legs in, knowing a fight was coming.

"That's it. Get angry!"

The Empty One threw the first punch, surprising Sam. The Angry One dodged, caught his arm and his shoulder, and used his momentum to spill him onto the floor by the Scared One, who hurried back. He now had his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face, mixing with scarlet, as he pleaded, "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

The Angry One kicked the Empty One, and the Empty One grabbed his foot, dragging him to the floor with him. There was a loud _thump_, and the Angry One was roaring. He got on top of the Empty One and began to strangle him.

"Stop!" Sam cried joining in with the Scared One. "_Stop!_"

For some reason, he was listened to.

"Look, it's okay to not want to feel," he explained. "Life hurts, alright? Sometimes it's nice to let go for awhile."

"It's _weak_," the Angry One snarled.

"Well it's better than hurting people," he argued. "Is that what you want to do? Hurt people?"

"Yes."

Sam was taken aback by the answer, but he realized the Empty One was now fading, as if some part of Sam had come to an understanding about himself.

He didn't like to feel all the time. Sometimes he couldn't. Sometimes it was a luxury he couldn't afford. And he had to accept that.

With the Empty One's absence, he did.

Bobby's house melted, like dripping candle wax, like some obscene thing out of a nightmare.

The room changed around him, incongruous for mere seconds, until Sam was in a massive place he didn't recognize. There were metal stairs behind him that led up to a door, tile and stone walls and floor, a long table with a map built into it. Hallways branched off from the room, and further out, he saw a hardwood floor, tables and chairs, and more books than he could imagine.

His eyes widened in awe as he headed towards the library.

The Scared One was by one of the bookshelves, and the Angry One was carelessly swiping lamps and books off tables.

"Just stop already!" Sam cried at him. "I get it! I get it. People hurt you."

"And they should pay," he growled out. "But since they're not here, I'll just take my frustrations out on something else."

The Scared One flinched when a lamp was thrown.

And then, to Sam's surprise, the Angry One was making his way over to the Scared One, hoisting him up. With a yell he threw him at a table, which he fell back against before crashing to the floor.

Sam ran forward, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He was too small to get in between them.

He grabbed the bloodied version of himself by the throat, leaned him against the table, and spat, venom in his words, "You let those people hurt us! _You let_ _them!_ You're weak and pathetic, and I wish you had stayed in Hell."

Sam didn't understand. Why… Why would he be so furious with himself?

Did he really hate himself that much?

A lump of emotion formed in his throat, and he found himself fighting back tears.

_Please,_ he pleaded to no one. _Make it stop._

Then the Angry One was punching the Scared One over and over again, and Sam watched through his tears, face wet with them, and they dripped off his chin. There were cries and blood, and the meaty smack of bodies coming together violently. It was something Sam was growing all too familiar with, but seeing that he hated himself was too much.

But god, he really did hate himself.

He would drink blood, or had drank blood, he was a freak who could turn off his emotions, someone filled with anger, someone filled with pain.

He really was broken.

But no, there was something small pulsing in him. Love.

Who was it for?

Sam couldn't figure it out, but it urged him to run forward and intervene. A vicious cry left him as he jumped at the Angry One and grabbed his fist. Sam went flying and slid across the floor before smacking his head into a bookcase. Stars swam in his vision, but then he was up on his feet again.

There was thrashing, screaming, strong legs kicking, yet somehow he ended up between the two of them.

"If you're going to hurt him you have to hurt me too!" he declared.

The Angry One paused.

"How much do you hate yourself?" Sam challenged.

"I hate all of me," he told him, and then a fist met Sam in the face, breaking his nose, blood running, eyes watering.

He collapsed to his knees, and was kicked aside.

God, he couldn't fix this. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't.

Sleeve to his nose, trying to keep the blood from his mouth, Sam staggered to his feet.

"You're hurt," he told the Angry One, though he now looked the least hurt of the three of them. "That's why you're so mad. It's okay."

"You don't get to tell me what's okay!" he roared. "Is it okay that someone I thought was my best friend killed the love of my life? Is it okay that I died over and over again, and lost more people than I can count, and was violated beyond anything imaginable?"

"No," the Scared One answered.

"You, quiet!

"How is it okay?!"

Sam lowered his arm, shouting back, "It's not! It's not, but… but…" He turned his head to the side, and murmured to himself, "But _I'm_ angry."

The Angry One faded, and with him so did the glorious bunker.

Sam found himself alone with the Scared One in a dark, dank room filled with dust and leaves and cobwebs, shattered mirrors along the walls, one chair to his left.

The Scared One squeezed his eyes shut immediately and started sobbing.

Sam wiped his mouth on his sleeve, but it didn't save him from the heavy coppery taste on his tongue.

Heat lay in him, and he wanted to punch something, but he didn't.

As Sam looked about, he also realized he very much wanted to hide.

He questioned, voice quiet now, "Where are we?"

"No, no, no, no, no. Not here, not here, not here. He's not here, he's not here. It's okay, Sam. He's not here. He's not here, he's not here, he's not _here_!"

"Who?"

"_Him_."

The word was heavy, spoken with dread that made cold seep down into his bones, and Sam sat down against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest.

There was frost on the window across from him, and a trident had been etched into it.

A leaf blew in the wind that made its way through broken windows and cracks in the wood, and Sam and the Scared One both started at it, before moving closer to each other.

"Please, what is this place?" Sam asked.

The Scared One let out an anguished shout before he finally lifted up his head, showing Sam the horrors of his bloodied and tear-soaked skin once more.

He answered, tone darker than night, filled with hate, fear so deep Sam forgot how to breathe, and an agony that clawed his heart till nothing remained but an aching black well of madness, "This is where I said yes."

Sam licked his suddenly dry lips and attempted to swallow.

"What do you… What do you mean?"

"This is where you let the Devil in. This is where all the odds are stacked against you and you say yes because you have no other choice."

Sam still didn't understand, but everything about this made him uncomfortable, and he scooted closer to the Scared One.

"That doesn't sound like a yes," he uttered.

The Scared One met his gaze, and Sam had to look away after a few seconds. The amount of pain there was enough to drive him to the brink of insanity, and maybe right over it.

"No, it doesn't, does it?"

"Why?"

"To save the world."

"Was it worth it?"

Heavy silence hung between them, tension and uncertainty thickening the air. Sam expected to hear some wise answer from his older self, but instead he whispered, "I don't know," as another tear streaked through the blood on his face.

"Can we go back?" he asked him. "Can we go back and not do it?"

"Somehow, I don't think there is no going back."

"Then why? Why all this?" Sam asked. "It's like… Am I even real? Are you? Were any of us? Are we just going on some weird adventure? And for what? To reach the end? The Empty One said that torture is at the end of this."

"No more," the Scared One said. "No more. I'm done."

He lay down, taking his place on the floor, beneath the window with the trident, and he stared up at it, every single cell in his body speaking of defeat.

Sam rushed over to him, and grabbed his arm.

"No, no! You can't give up! You can't!"

He didn't know why he was so insistent about this, why he was suddenly crying again, why his voice felt thick in his throat.

Giving up meant something bad, something terrible, and he just knew it.

"I'm done, kid. It's too much. It's all too much. Just let me go."

"What about _me_?" he sobbed, cheeks reddening from embarrassment at this display of emotion. "What happens to me if you give up? What happens to you?"

"I guess we die."

"No, no! I don't wanna die. Not yet. I'm not-not ready. 'M not _ready_. Please get up. You have to get up."

The light in the room began to dim, and the Scared One was closing his eyes. Sam still pulled insistently on his arm, but he realized it was no use. He was too small, too weak, too helpless against the agony inside and the pain in the world. He rested his head on his chest, and hugged him as he sobbed.

"Please, don't go. You c-can't leave. I don't want you to go."

"It's okay, kid. It's what I want."

"What… What ab-about Jack?" he got out, remembering who the Kind One had mentioned earlier.

"He's not my son," Sam whispered. "He's Lucifer's."

That felt like a lie in Sam's chest, spreading poison through him. But it was truth tinged in fear, in doubt.

"What about Dean? What about _you_? Don't… Don't you love anyone?"

The Scared One didn't answer, and Sam still lay on him, crying, growing hysterical, the light in the room fading.

He stilled, gasping in surprise when he felt strong arms wrap around him, and he was sitting up, holding him, legs coming up to protect him.

"I got you," he soothed. "I got you. I'm not gonna let you down."

Brilliant light flared through the room, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

* * *

Sam woke up, mouth moving soundlessly, his voice lost to torment long ago. It was as if he was looking down upon himself, at a bloody pulp of a man that lay on a table. Weak, but alive. So very alive when he'd almost given in.

Dead bodies lay around him, and Dean rushed over, shaking hands hovering over his face, tears in his eyes.

When his brother caressed his cheek his mind rushed back into his body, and he gasped, so alight with pain that he couldn't process it, couldn't even hope to breathe, to exist for one second longer. He began to feel his mind shut down again, began to feel it splintering as it had before, into the different parts of himself.

Castiel was there, untying Jack. Yes, that was right. Demons had wanted to torture Jack, so Sam had thrown himself to them instead.

With his family around him, Sam felt whole, felt like they were the cement that held him together.

But he was holding himself together too.

Sam was going to make it. He wasn't just going to survive, he was going to live, live with acceptance of himself, with acceptance of his mistakes, his hurts, his anger, his loss, the blood, the child inside of him that was screaming and crying and just needed a hug, some love. He was going to live, and he was going to take the love he felt for his family, and he was going to try and love himself.

Castiel's healing touching rushed through him like cleansing water, and then they were all holding each other, tears being shared between them.

"_I love you,_" Sam told them emphatically, making sure they understood each word perfectly, that they wouldn't forget him saying this, that it would linger with them even once he was gone.

"We love you, too," the three of them said, a clatter of noise and affection as they all spoke it at different times.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, resting his head against Jack, who was nearest to him, pulling Dean and Castiel more tightly around him.

Sam was whole.


End file.
